


Saviour

by FrostyChess



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, all assassin like and cAUGHT, but it's okay because here come the Rooks and their boss to save the day, but reader is an assassin who takes none of your shit jacob frye, check you out, imagine, injured reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyChess/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine - you're an assassin from an American Brotherhood and are sent to find a high placed target that's fled to London and getting injured somehow and about to be killed when the Rooks barge the place and Jacob saves you.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>You tilt your head to the side, spying the man standing behind them, leaning idly against the wall. You’re too far away to see any definitive features – and from this angle, his face is obscured by the hat he wears, showing only a stubbly chin and a smirk that could befriend the devil. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Saviour

**Author's Note:**

> the first request I ever received on my reader-insert blog, so I'm fairly proud of myself.  
> Enjoy!

You hate London already.

It never stops raining, it’s cold and windy, and already you’ve nearly been knocked over by a horse-driven carriage. You’re ready to leave, ready to kill your target and get on the first ship out of here.

Why anyone would want to live here, you’ll never understand.

You brush another strand of rain-soaked hair from your eyes, watching your target as he paces – from the widow to the desk and back again, surveying his property with an air you can only be taught from birth.

You’ve finally found him, you think, and your lips curve upwards in a satisfied grin. You can finally finish this.

Below the window are five guards and if you weren’t an assassin you’d think it strange that he’s so heavily guarded, so wary and _scared_.

There’s a twinkle in your eye as you lean back slightly, perched where you are on the rooftop, watching. There has to be an opening _somewhere_. There _has_ to be.

Your eyes scan the building, taking a mental count of the guards, those red coats sauntering all over the place. When you’d arrived you’d thought the red coats were odd; a uniform is certainly _nothing_ to be proud of, you think, because all it does is make you stand out, separate you from the rest. The red coat is easily recognisable if you’re alone – and you’d watched this happen first hand, watched a bulky man in the street be pounded down by a group of four or five men in green.

You _really_ hate this city.

 _There_!

There’s an open window at the side of the building, one floor up and three rooms across from your target. You can sneak in but it will take some effort to get to him, to slip into that room and out again once the deed is done.

You worry at your lip, leaning back on your perch, considering your options.

There’s the particularly stupid route, you think, eyeing the main doorway and the guards circling around like sharks. Across the street, you’ve noticed (but you’re not sure if those guards have too, and maybe _that_ ’s why they’re pacing and nervy-looking) there’s a group of men and woman in green, standing in a line and staring at the building.

You’re just thinking you might be able to use this to your advantage when they disperse, shaking their heads and wearing wry smiles. You tilt your head to the side, spying the man standing behind them, leaning idly against the wall. You’re too far away to see any definitive features – and from this angle, his face is obscured by the hat he wears, showing only a stubbly chin and a smirk that could befriend the devil.

Slowly, languidly, he follows the greens away, and any hope you have for a distraction leaves with him.

“The window then,” you murmur to yourself, nodding, your plan taking clearer shape.

Making his death look like an accident would be ideal, you think, leaping from one rooftop to another, careful of the snipers positioned above you. After all, just because he’s not in America anymore doesn’t mean he’s any less influential.

There’s a reason Crawford Starrick summoned him here and the fact that he’s a dead man walking is just one of them.

In retrospect – and you can _hear_ your mentor now, screaming in your ears about the sheer _stupidity_ of this action – you should have checked the guard rotation inside, and leaping in the window from the roof might be the worst decision of your assassin career.

“Here!” shouts the woman in red, reeling back in shock from where you’re crouched in front of the window, recovering from a feat of agility you’ll be proud of later – if you’re not dead by then.

She gurgles, hands reaching for her throat where your throwing knife protrudes, her red coat becoming even darker with her blood. She stumbles back one step, two, and you’re watching her carefully the whole time, your heart pounding in your ears as she stumbles closer and closer to the junction of the hallways.

You hold your breath – one more step and she’ll be in view of anyone down the hall to the left.

 _There’s still time_ , you think, turning your head to the window, _I’ll try again_.

But the body will alert your target to your presence – his guards will be doubled, he’ll be on guard himself. _No_ , you have to strike _now_.

The woman gurgles and falls to her knees, eyes staring unseeing at your own, terrified and confused and _god_ , you’ve always hated this bit. The confusion on their faces, the way you can clearly see what they’re thinking; _I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve to die_.

It’s hard to not feel the slightest bit regretful, especially given that you’ve taken this woman’s life when she’s in her prime, when she’s still got so much more to _do_. The lines are far too blurred; Assassins, Templars, two sides of the same coin but still so, so different.

 _You’ve allied yourself with the Templars_ , you think coldly, turning away as her body topples forward and her blood stains the dark carpet. _You deserve everything you get_.

Maybe they think the same is true for you, you think, because when you turn round and find yourself face to face with a pistol, the face of the man behind it showing nothing but anger – no, _fury_ – you can’t help but remember deaths of your friends, fellow assassin’s cut down as easily as you’d cut down that woman.

They must’ve been friends, you’re sure of it, because there’s no way this man would be so angry if they weren’t. His lips are curled back in a snarl, showing yellowed and crooked teeth, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining it but his eyes look watery.

 _Friends_ , you think, remembering your fallen comrades, your own _friends_ ; Sarah and Jane and Mark and Arnie. It’s never even occurred to you before now that they might have friends too.

Reality pulls you back with a harsh tug – and a pistol to the face.

Blood pools in your mouth as your crumble to the floor and you’re vaguely aware of the man above you shouting and swearing, hovering over you and wielding a knife now. The floor under your hands moves as more men and woman join him and you see them turning the corner, sliding to a stop beside their fallen comrade – _Templar_ , you tell yourself harshly, _she’s a Templar_.

Your mentor is going to put you on reconnaissance missions for _weeks_ because of this blunder.

Your leg feels like it’s on fire suddenly, ripping a scream from your throat and forcing your attention to your thigh, where the knife that brute had been wielding is buried nearly to the hilt. Tears sting at your eyes and _god_ you can hardly breathe you’re in so much pain.

 _Novice mistake_ , you’re telling yourself, hissing through your teeth and writhing on the floor, _damn it_.

Hands curl under your arms, dragging you forward, nudging the knife intentionally just to hear your sharp intake of breath _every damn time_ it happens. They hold you tight, like iron, and you’re not going anywhere, not at all, feigning pained contentment as they lead you straight to your target.

God, you wish this had been the plan the whole time – you wouldn’t feel like such an idiot if it was.

Your target hasn’t moved from the window, standing with his back to you with his arms clasped behind his back, reminding you so much of your old professor back home. The thought is unwanted and unnecessary right now and you pinch the skin of your wrist where the guards are tying your wrists behind your back.

The last time you’d had an unnecessary thought like that you’d wound up caught and with a _knife_ in your damned _leg_.

The guard in their red coats disperse, leaving only two standing side by side by the door, and your target, turning slowly, silhouetted in the window.

“You damned _assassins_ ,” he spits, “you just never give _up_.”

He emphasises the word with a twist to the knife in your thigh and you grit your teeth, making no sound other than the hissing intake of your breath. You’ve been taught better than this and this is a _novice mistake_.

But there’s no mentor or master assassin to swoop in and save you now.

 _Shit_ , you think dismally, hanging your head as the man before you turns away, gloating in your presence. Your breathing is heavy and you’ve never felt more ridiculous.

 _It’s okay_ , you tell yourself. _It’s alright. Finally, I won’t be alone anymore_.

Never betraying your morbid thoughts, your acceptance of death, you quip to your still boasting target, “Are you finished talking yet? I find I’m quite ready for death.”

He spins in his spot, shooting you a glower that all but _tells_ you this is it, this is the end, and for all your bold words, you find you’re not actually _ready_. He hovers over you, fingers dancing on the hilt of the knife in your thigh, jolting it slightly every few minutes, grinning when he catches your cringes and flinches.

“Another failure,” he tells you, “just like the rest of your ilk.”

You pick at the rope binding your wrists but you falter, another scream torn from your throat as the _Templar_ smugly, _smoothly_ pulls the knife from your thigh.

 _Shit, the rope isn’t budging_!

Your blood is still warm on the blade as he holds it to your throat and you meet his eyes, staring him down, willing him to just _get it over with_.

The window behind him shatters, glass blown inwards, and you can hear shouts and gunshots from below. Your target stumbles back, alarmed, casting glances over his shoulders to the broken window. He waves the knife at the two at the door, narrowly missing the top of your head.

“ _Well_?” he snaps at them. “Do what you’re being paid for!”

You hear the door, hear their pounding footsteps as they join the ongoing fight, and your fingers tug uselessly at the knots binding you.

Your hidden blade pops free with a quiet _snick_ , slicing through the ropes while your target storms to the window, lips turned down in a worried frown. You steel yourself and stand, leaning heavily on your right leg and gritting your teeth against the pain.

In the end, for all your doubts and all your unneeded thoughts from earlier, it’s painfully easy to end the bastard’s life, to watch his body crumple in and fall forward.

“Another failure,” you hiss at him, tugging free the handkerchief from your breast pocket. “Just like the rest of your _ilk_.”

You watch him until the life bleeds from him, until his eyes stare unseeing at the glass shards littering the carpet. Your hands grip tightly to the desk at your side as you take in each breath, slow and steady. Blood seeps down your leg, pooling on the floor, and _god you’re in so much damned pain_.

There are shouts behind you, barbed insults that have little effect on you thrown your way, and you’re in no position to defend yourself. You try anyway, your shaking hands drawing a throwing knife from its sheathe, lining up the shot and catching one of your attackers in the arm.

God, the room is _spinning_ , and they’re still charging –

He appears from out of nowhere, your half delirious mind thinks, meeting your attackers head on and cutting them down as easily as one would swat a fly. He blocks and parries and tosses them aside, slices up their bodies with a wickedly curved blade that you _wish_ you had because holy _moly_ that thing is _amazing_.

 _In and out_ , you coach yourself, _breathe_. _You can admire the knife later_.

More of them keep coming, and this man in front of you – the very same one from before, you realise almost too late, as your vision begins to darken at the edges, with the devil’s smile and languid posture – just keeps knocking them down, smiling, exhilarated.

You manage to stay awake long enough to feel yourself collapse, landing hard on broken glass, hearing it crunch under you, and just long enough to see the guards stop coming.

Just long enough to feel hands brushing your hair from your face, hands checking your injuries and arms sweeping you up, carrying you away.

* * *

Their headquarters is a _train_.

It’s so utterly ridiculous and amazing. Henry Green is all gentle rage and concern, fussing over your bandaged leg and checking on you as often as he’s able.

You haven’t quite found it in yourself to tell him the only thing you _want_ from him is a way to get to the next ship to the states.

Blighters and Rooks, you’re pondering, staring at the ceiling and lounging on a ratty sofa across from a wall of portraits. At the peak of them you recognise Crawford Starrick but you’re not interested enough to pay the others much attention.

The car door opens but you don’t look up when someone steps into the train car with you, too busy frowning at the ceiling and picking at a hole in the sofa cushion.

“Do you mind?” quips a voice, unamused, “I have to sleep there.”

It’s the man, your _saviour_ from before, standing over you and shooting you a glower without any real heat behind it. He’s not wearing his hat and without it his hair is scruffy, falling in his eyes as he stares at you.

You gesture idly to your leg. “I’m not moving,” you tell him simply. You can still feel the light pulsing of pain from your wound, and there’s a dark spot of red on the white bandages.

The man huffs, arms across his chest and refusing to budge. You settle against the cushions, your head falling back and your eyes landing on the ceiling above you once more.

“Who are you?” he demands huffily, impatiently.

You shrug as well as you’re able, lounging idly. “You’re the one who brought me back here.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and finally settles on, “You were injured and you stole my target.”

He sounds so childish, you think, your eyes falling on him again. Finally you sigh and give him your name.

“And you are?”

“Devilishly handsome,” he says, “but you already know that.”

You want to look unimpressed – you think you’ve managed to succeed – but _wow what a line_ is all you can think, torn between feeling charmed and laughing in his face. He sighs and finally – _finally_ – seems to relax his frustrated stance.

 _Yes_ , _let me sleep_ , you think, your eyelids feeling heavy so suddenly, your leg pounding in pain.

His hands are gentle, shifting your legs so he can sit, setting them gently on his lap, and dropping his head back in a way similar to yours earlier. He huffs again but doesn’t move.

“What are you doing?” you ask tentatively, watching him carefully, wishing you still had your weapons on hand. Why did Henry take them from you again? And _where are they_?

“Jacob Frye,” he tells you. “And I’m sleeping. Shh.”

And there’s not much you can really say to that, is there?

You stare at him for a long while, blinking slowly, curious, but he doesn’t move again, gives no indication that he’s aware of you at all.

 _Must have had a long night_ , you think to yourself and your own eyelids are drooping as a yawn forces its way out of your mouth.

Jacob seems to have the right idea, you think, settling in against the soft cushions once more.

You can yell at him about how inappropriate this is later.

**Author's Note:**

> have a request? - [feel free!](http://romancingthecreed.tumblr.com)


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